


you've got me

by 2davidbeckham3



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Character Study - of sorts, M/M, Rated for swearing, Second person POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-17
Updated: 2016-05-17
Packaged: 2018-06-09 01:25:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6883363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2davidbeckham3/pseuds/2davidbeckham3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You’re ready to curse the whole city of Madrid until his light, musical laugh echoes through your ears. It’s polite and a bit startled, and you don’t realize that you’ve spoken out loud until you see him shaking his head, lips pursed in a mocking smile. </p><p>“Maybe you’ve changed, Gaz.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	you've got me

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for the ambiguous timeline, I was too lazy to look up what hairstyle David had/the schedule for international break. I know the Euros were that year, but, for the sake of this fic, let's just imagine a few other friendlies in between, yeah? (Also, sorry for the mucked up timeline [read: v messed up], I didn't really want to talk about Gary's last game either - and i know he was back with AC Milan and stuff but ~creative liberties~)  
>    
> (note: tenative title)

He looks different the next time you see him.

 

 

 

Apart from the fact that you have a vague feeling that’s done _something_ to his hair (again), there’s something about him that’s changed that you just can’t put your finger on.

 

(Then again, you’re not sure if you want to know what it is. But you do.)

 

Maybe it’s the atmosphere. The last time you saw him, it was the first international break since he left United – an odd feeling for all parties involved, since you still looked for him in trainings, oftentimes automatically turning to talk to a ghost that wasn’t there – where the hurt was still palpable from what was a forced exit.

 

(You remember that you begged for him to stay, pleaded with tears shining in your eyes, even though you knew that if you got on your knees nothing would change.)

 

Then, it was all short, pained smiles from your captain who was all business whose stiff posture betrayed his difficulties in adjusting to change. You didn’t know what it was like adjusting to a people and culture so far away from home, how it was and what it meant to give up a family whose bond was forged for love for the same badge and thrust into adopting a new one. You didn’t mind his silence - you couldn’t keep the pity from your eyes, anyways, and longing was never far from your tone, even in your laughter.

 

(You can’t remember the last time you saw him that angry, if ever.

 

It took three of you to hold him back. Eyes glistening, defiant, blinking away the blood from the shallow cut above his eye – you’re a defender, assessing in the gravity of head wounds is second nature. You’re grateful for this distraction, oddly enough, because you can’t meet his gaze – yet you still shrink away from the weight of his stare. You feel his anger radiating, pulsating like a tangible, suffocating monster, who makes its presence known through his clenched fists and grinding teeth, his loud panting breaths echoing the staccato beat of your racing heart.

 

You can’t remember the last time you saw him that angry.

 

Not even when the world was watching and his juvenile display made him see red.

 

Red.

 

It was all around you, running through your veins, clouding your vision and you felt guilt unfurling through your fingertips, its chill spreading through your whole body. You felt betrayed. Loyalty to your club and _him_ were tearing you apart and you were scared to admit which side was winning.

 

You hated him, for a moment.)

 

It was more than that, it had to be.

 

He looks loose, relaxed, unlike before.

 

 

 

He’s changed.

 

 

 

You curse the distance, you curse the fact that you only see him rarely now, not often, not always. His greeting smile is soft, unsure, like if you were an acquaintance instead of his fucking best friend. You curse him and the fact that he’s hesitant, tip-toeing around you like you’re some sort of stranger instead of the person who he told all of his secrets to.

 

You’re ready to curse the whole city of Madrid until his light, musical laugh echoes through your ears. It’s polite and a bit startled, and you don’t realize that you’ve spoken out loud until you see him shaking his head, lips pursed in a mocking smile.

 

“Maybe you’ve changed, Gaz.”

 

He doesn’t believe it. His words were said with no conviction, instead in that flippant tone that’s meant to dismiss a conversation. You can tell that he just doesn’t want to discuss it any further. No, not the fact that he looks small, shoulders hunched, but inexplicably at ease. Maybe it’s that Spanish air, or their slow lifestyle that grants them the opportunity to split their day into two with a few hours of rest in between.

 

It doesn’t look right on a man who used to carry himself with pride, and that annoying swagger of a man who knew he was better than you and wasn’t afraid to flaunt it – you always thought it was part of his charm – you always admired how easy it was for him to make enemies that way.

 

Still, he smiles at you with a slight tilt of his head, his feigned playfulness almost completely disguising his scrutiny.

 

You almost believe it.

 

“Let’s see if the others have changed too, yeah?”

 

You want to believe it.

 

You let him have this one, tampering down your excitement at being able to fall into step beside him.

 

The others aren't strangers to you, unlike him, you _always_ see them.

 

 

* 

 

 

He’s sitting next to one of the younger players after training, when you finally spot him. He’s just gotten out of the shower, dressed in only a towel, yet his lack of clothing did nothing to ward off his admirer whose rapid fire questions are hard to follow when a band of Scousers are bickering so close to your ear. They’re only a few seats away from you, yet you still lean forward to try and catch their whole conversation. They’re talking about Madrid.

 

You’re frowning openly at the fact, but fondly roll your eyes the younger man’s blind hero worship, having experienced the same feeling a few times yourself. When you look at David sitting next to him, you wonder if that feeling ever stopped.

 

Unlike you, he’s grinning at the other’s questions, stretched out like a cat, leaning heavily against the lockers behind him as he sits. He answers the other’s questions effortlessly, so different from his demeanor just a short time before when he was tortured by his insecurities, afraid that he wouldn’t fit in the new team.

 

He seems to be doing more than that, you realize, as you notice his grin turn into a smirk when he’s asked about his teammates. Their nicknames easily fall off his lips “ _Zizou, Rulo, Chema”_ as comfortably as he said “ _Giggsy, Scholsey, and Gaz_ ” once before. Your own frown turns into a scowl and you strain to hear whose name comes out in the smooth caress of a lover.

 

You should give him more credit, but you can’t. Not when he laughs that loudly, that unguarded, like if nothing has changed.

 

_“So, who’s the best team in Europe?”_

 

You feel your nails dig into your palms as you clench your fists, holding your breath in anticipation.

 

How is that even a question? The answer is obvious.

 

Isn’t it?

 

 

  

You didn’t know he could be cruel.

 

 

 

David’s expression shifts right before your eyes, though ever so slightly. The mischievousness leaves his smirk and his lips curl into something almost secretive, more sinister.

 

_“You tell me.”_

His tone is laughing, answer ambiguous enough that his companion dismisses the response with a guffaw before delving into a story of his own.

 

However, you’ve known him enough to read in between the lines and you’re seething. You hear the malice in his tone and a haughtiness that wasn’t there before. His laughter is cynical, eyes narrowed in that way that he does when you know he’s laughing at you. You’re ready to tear Madrid down brick by brick and claw at his skin until he bleeds _red_.

 

How could he? How could he so easily forsake the club that he so piously defended and have the nerve smile while doing it?

 

His deception burns right to your bones and you want to hate him.

 

 

 

Too bad he always looked good in white.

 

 

 

(You’re reminded of this incident years after the fact.

 

You’re older - too old _,_ you want to say - copiously having gained weight after retiring from your daily routine. You’re harshly reminded of this since you’ve just finished that documentary and were forced to watch so many clips from your youth that you’ve come to accept that this painful nostalgia for the good old days, the glory days, is just a permanent wound that you have to deal with.

 

David’s sitting next to you, beer in hand. The production crew thought it’d be nice to throw a party in light of having completed filming and that’s how you find yourself next to him, drinking your woes away while you watch your friends make fools of themselves in front of you. Phil and Nicky are butchering _She Bangs the Drums_ on karaoke _,_ since your brother’s too drunk to remember the words and is singing The Cure instead, while Nicky just sings horribly off-key. Giggsy’s trying to wrestle the mics out of their hand, and Scholsey's, naturally, nowhere near the scene of this crime.

 

“I gave my best years to United, didn’t I?” His question comes out more like a statement, nearly devoid of emotion, only a hint of melancholy coloring his tone.

 

“You did!” You blurt out, voice thick with emotion as you turn to look at him. He has a faraway look in his eye, bottle hanging limply in his hand. _You did._ You want to repeat over and over again like a mantra because it shouldn’t sound like a burden coming out of his mouth. He shouldn’t regret playing for United. Why does it sound like he does?

 

You look at him searchingly for a few moments before he looks away and you’re left with the vague feeling that you want to cry. There’s a lump in your throat and all of a sudden you feel small and helpless. You want to be angry at yourself because you can’t understand him, but you can’t. Not when you feel the warm metal of a trophy that’s been passed around the team underneath your fingertips. Not when you can taste champagne in your mouth, heart swelling while being surrounded by thousands of fans with their voices combined in a single song.

 

“You’re right,” he meets your eyes, with a sad smile. “I did.”

 

A loud bang breaks the spell as Giggsy’s voice gets louder in order to be heard over Phil’s giggles.

 

David uses this time to stand up and get another drink, his silence weighing uncomfortably on your chest.

 

There are tears stinging your eyes because you realize that you’ve lifted more trophies above your head on your own, the feel of the metal, smooth, imprinted in your fingertips after years of practice.

 

You wonder if victory ever goes stale.)

 

 

* 

 

 

It’s the evening after practice and the team’s basically all crowded in his room not even bothering to keep your voices down because the gaffer knows what you’re doing. David’s got the biggest room, anyways, or it seems like it, since it’s the cleanest. Why he subjects himself to this type of torture – you know you’re all going to leave a mess when you leave – you never know.

 

It’s loud, but homey. You’re all crowded around the television, but you’re not even watching it, since it’s just a rerun of Spain’s game that you missed during training.

 

You’re laughing at someone’s joke when you notice him. He’s quiet, almost as if he was trying to sink into the couch, running his palms up and down his thighs while looking around the room, the epitome of discomfort. Your laughter dies in your throat when you realize that he feels out of place.

 

You want to reach out to him without it being obvious, since the spotlight is what he’s shying away from, but from your position, it’s nearly impossible. So you stay. You watch him, almost willing for him to look at you – you could always read each other’s minds, couldn’t you?

 

His phone rings, earning a few jeers from the people around him, but he laughs it off, quick and insincere. He excuses himself and rushes outside and you wonder whether his haste was because of his present company or who was waiting for him on the line. You didn’t miss his relief when he read who was calling him nor the wistful smile he gives the screen before walking out.

 

When he comes back inside, the change is palpable. You almost don’t notice him walking back inside and a part of you wishes you didn’t. The tension’s left his shoulders, but it’s not just that. He’s shy, meek, slowly walking back to his spot in order to not cause a fuss. He looked lost before, but now-

 

It’s scandalous.

 

Now, he’s smiling, almost serene, but you want to walk up to him. You want to make him angry. You'd take his fury over _this_

 

How could he?

 

It’s blasphemous, even, that your captain has the gall to carry himself this way. Who did he talk to? Who did he have to talk to so that he could calm his nerves and relax? Who did he talk to that put him into place, walking around with his neck bared and submissive?

 

You feel the words burning in your throat and you’re suddenly hit with the urge to demand that he come back.

 

 _We never treated you this way_. You were all equals, alphas in your own way, but it worked.

 

 _We’ll never treat you this way._ This isn’t what he needs and you’d rather wear blue the rest of your life before admitting it.

 

(Of course, it’s easier to remember when he’s absent. You’ve seen the looks a certain freckled git gives you when you start drowning your sorrows and cursing his name.

 

You really ought to give him more credit.

 

You do, it just takes you a few years. Especially, when he’s so _present_. How dare he act like he never left?

 

 

It’s his first Easter in the States when he sends you a package. You open it and you’re crying of laughter for a few good minutes before you finally read the name of the fluorescent blue monstrosities he sent you and you have a hard time believing that the blue sugar-covered marshmallow bunnies are edible.

 

You give them to Phil the next time you’re over and you don’t miss the way his eyes light up, even though they’re devoid of surprise.

 

Then you realize that he’s got a cupboard full of them – you weren’t the only one with the idea to chuck the possibly radioactive sweets at him – and you don’t even fight off your grin at David’s odd sense of humor.)

 

 

* 

 

 

It’s unnerving how easy it is to step back into routine. It’s a charity game, but you’re all lined up in the tunnel for old time sake and it’s simple. You can almost imagine it’s before the turn of the century and you’re all so young, dreaming of triumph instead of striving to retain it.

 

It’s the first time he’s back, isn’t it?

 

You spare him a look and you’re not surprised by his rigid posture. He’s leaning against the wall in a way that’s supposed to be casual, it’s all but not. Not when his arms are crossed and his grip is so tight that his knuckles have turned white. Not when his jaw’s clenched and his eyes dart around, warily looking for any signs of danger in this hostile environment.

 

He takes a few deep breaths in order to calm himself, eyes closed.

 

You wonder if he burns.

 

They’re slow, shuddering, and you feel like a voyeur watching this short display, but you can’t look away. Not when you’re certain that his lungs are scorched with every shuddering breath, when you know he feels it, the way his blood runs red.

 

“You’ve changed.”

 

The words are tumbling out before you can stop them and you wish you could take them back. Your hearts racing – though not of anticipation – and you can feel the adrenaline rushing through your system, readying you to run away.

 

He takes another deep breath before finally opening his eyes and you feel an echo of fear creeping up your spine, leaving you frozen in your tracks. You don’t want to hear his response.

 

He burns.

 

It’s not for this. It’s not for you and you wonder whether the emotion in his eyes is lust or wrath. You’re afraid to find the answer.

 

_He burns._

You want to look away. You can’t look at him while he steels himself up for war, not when you’re not even sure if you’re on the same side. " _Who betrayed whom?_ " you wonder, and, then, you remember that forgiveness was never his strong suit.

 

He looks at you, eyes dark, teeth bared.

 

“I did.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading, comments are appreciated, as always!
> 
> This is something completely different than what I usually do, so yeah, thanks again for sticking through it!


End file.
